And counting
by sneakerdoodles
Summary: Aziraphale gayly ponders on the nature of touch and proceeds to expand his experience with it. (Coming from a loveless place and repressing feelings for your buddy pal for 6000 years will make you extremely touch-starved my dudes)


Aziraphale enjoyed having a body greatly. The design was fragile, sure, but to him fragility was merely the price of comfort - that specific comfort that would rise from the very genes whenever the body felt safe and nourished. Maybe Aziraphale couldn't starve, but the mortal frame still had the distant memory of hunger, and it was warm with safety and gratitude after every finished meal. Maybe he couldn't catch a cold, but multiple layers of fitting fabric still felt like a personal protective shell. Turtles knew what was "up", he reckoned. It's good to have a place of your own, to be neatly contained.

The body seemed to respond to the bookshop the same way, granting Aziraphale an understanding of "home" - something most angels didn't seem to grasp that well. In Heaven space was immaterial, more metaphorical than anything else: the "halls" never ended and the "outer" walls were eternally slipping out of reach. Humanity's clear distinction between the vast outside and cozy inside was nearly incomprehensible, like an idiom in a language you're only semi-fluent in: the base elements are there, but the message is hopelessly lost. What does space even mean when you stop limiting your consciousness to three dimensions? How do you define "vast" when you think of the scale of one sorry planet in relation to the whole universe? Why care to separate an already tiny particle of the cosmos into even tinier microcosms and then proudly call them "houses" as if their size was at all considerable? And on top of that, a being capable of changing the course of rivers with a snap of fingers can't exactly relate to the human delight of having a place where you set your own rules.

And yet, every single time Aziraphale stepped through the door of his bookshop, he found himself overjoyed. And the joy wasn't just metaphysical, he noticed. The mortal body itself noticeably relaxed at the familiarity of things, at the personality projected outwards, always perfect in its own way, always welcoming. It fascinated Aziraphale no end: the way soul and body united in a single feeling, experienced on many levels and precious on each and every one of them.

There were so many ways for the body to feel at home. It responded to the smell of fresh cocoa, to the sounds of wooden floors and turned pages, to the sight of light filtering through the curtains.

And there was also touch. Oh, touch was the most amusing.

Aziraphale cherished the sensation of running his fingers across hardbacks or placing his hands around a hot steaming cup. He honoured God's work on the world through experience, and the world never disappointed, always providing with new unique surfaces to trace with one's fingertips. But there was something else to the touch between people, the momentary bridge from one being to another. He saw it countless times from afar, and he felt it, like all angels do: love made tangible, communicated. He watched it happen, even if he wasn't looking: the body caving in and finally reaching in the same direction the soul's been grasping for. The moment when the movement of heart became one with the movement of hands, and the distinct borders of separate souls would start blurring. It put a shining content smile on his face. If at the end of the day God really was love incarnate, humans were far ahead of Heaven in their service to Her.

It made him think. This body of his hadn't experienced that specific type of touch as thorougly as the other. And one could argue that it wasn't a need, but neither was the smell of old paper or the feeling of a familiarly shaped cushion under his elbow. And that made Aziraphale wonder about the essential parts of the human experience he might have been missing out on all this time.

There was an entertaining variety of small brief contacts scattered across the landscape of his past. Some touches felt foreign, polite and unemotional. Some were invasive, hollow and condescending. (It's amazing how expressive Gabriel's body language is, really. The distinct message repeated over and over: "I am being nice to you, but do not forget that I have the option not to".) Some were much more pleasant, lit up by the affection for a friend long gone, with whom Aziraphale would spend long nights conversing, often grabbing each other's arms in a fit of laughter. Some nice, some cold - all essentially fleeting. They were born by the moment, were precious for as long as they lasted, - and passed away with the flow of seconds.

And then there was Crowley. And the brief contact between their corporeal forms.

These touches were different. They lasted for just a moment, yet felt drawn out in time, every single one preceded by ages of desperate reaching. They felt like single sparks falling into the night, burning between the two for just a moment before drowning in the dark. Never getting a chance to grow into a flame.

Aziraphale could hear the futile sounds of flint and steel echoing through his life, years of silence between each strike. And he could count every single one of them. So he did.

The barely noticeable touches of feathers, black to white. The fingers brushing against each other for a split second. The light taps on the shoulder, hand rushing away from the momentary contact as soon as attention was gained. The tentative handshakes, repeated over and over again. He examined them like a scientist, cataloged them in his brain. They all added up to ninety seven. Ninety seven touches quietly smoldering at the bottom of his heart. Not much for thousands of years of existence. Not enough for sixty centuries of knowing each other.

Aziraphale reviewed his tactile record most attentively, found it deeply unsatisfying and - over the course of few nights - brought himself to make a decision. These records needed to become history. These thoughts belonged in the past. The strained, uncertain, isolated past, rich in so many exhilarating things but lacking so many others.

He finally stepped into the freshly de-Armageddonned eternity, ready to engage with the brand new world in a whole new way. And had to shove the slight flutter of panic into the farthest corners of his being.

**᛫**

He feels rather puckish about still keeping score at the beginning, as if he is logging a secret experiment. And in a way he is. Neither of them know what would happen if a single previous touch has lingered – but Aziraphale is about to find out.

98.

He puts his hand on Crowley's arm rested on top of the table and lets it stay there. The demon almost recoils, but before Aziraphale's fingers can move away Crowley softens, almost melts, and the two stay that way. Aziraphale is taking in every moment of this, watching Crowley's face intently, watching the touch itself, for the first time ever - from the inside of it. And he feels it: his soul swelling, flooding his chest, reveling in the new-found sense. It feels like the first warm sunlit morning after the longest winter of his life.

* * *

102.

He moves a step closer and takes Crowley's arm, making an effort to continue the conversation nonchalantly. (And yet they both stutter for just a bit). His side is pressed into Crowley's side, and he is examining the sternness of it. This feels safe, reliable. The edges of Crowley's shoulder and elbow are sharp and distinct, and Aziraphale focuses on the sensation, familiarizes himself with it, eyes averted, fixed on the ground under their feet. He looked so many times before. Traced the line of that shoulder with only his glance so often, sometimes thoughtlessly, sometimes fully aware. And now this feels like a dream, as if he had been glaring at something behind a glass window for so long he forgot that holding it in his hands could ever be an option. But Crowley is here, warm, firm, _real, _and there is so much of _him _to discover in an entirely new way- just the thought is making Aziraphale giddy. He finds himself smiling almost childishly.

Number 103 catches him off guard. A hand is placed over Aziraphale's, (demon pointedly looking away, like he's very busy watching the ducks fight for seeds), and his heart skips a bit. He leans into the touch even more, hoping it doesn't end, just retreats back into his body, waiting, a memory ready to take shape again.

* * *

106.

They reach for each other after saying their goodbyes, awkwardly, fearfully at first, and Aziraphale feels it – fluttering souls moving towards one another simultaneously, recognizing the unanimity of their wishes. The feeling is overwhelming, it covers him like a wave and clouds his mind, disrupting any further clever observations. He only knows that he's pressed into Crowley's body, arms on his back, and feels the demon's chest rise and fall in one deep silent sigh. He closes his eyes, and he thinks Crowley does too, and they stand there, barely breathing.

107: before finally breaking away Aziraphale puts both hands on Crowley's chest and looks up, looks him in the eyes and smiles warmly, softly, and feels the pounding of another heart under his palms. His own almost bursts with tenderness in response.

His thoughts feel like heavy stones, turning slowly._"One hundred and eight."._

Aziraphale takes one last step forward, (a new wave rising from within, ready to stun him, knock the air out of his lungs), and places a gentle kiss on the corner of Crowley's mouth. He feels a warm shaky breath brush across his cheek, and wants to feel it again and again and again.

* * *

112.

Crowley's half-lying across the couch, resting in Aziraphale's arms, head on his shoulder. He's bent his neck backwards to be able to see angel's face. The sunglasses are off, 'cos Crowley could not be bothered to adjust them every few minutes. ("And because he is comfortable", Aziraphale thinks to himself, the most tender kind of pride nestling in his chest). Aziraphale examines the rich yellow of the irises with a feeling close to enchantment, brushes a stray strand of hair out of Crowley's unblinking eyes. That would be 113, he thinks.

And then he feels it: his soul pulling on every nerve of the body, grasping for contact. A reverse echo of a touch that is to come. His fingers linger on demon's temple, and the palm follows them, lightly pressing itself against the cheek. Aziraphale draws a breath and leans close, eyes barely open.

114\. The touch of Crowley's lips is softer than he could ever imagine.

He loses count after that. He settles into the now, a new and steady world, laced with touch like body's laced with vessels. Now it is still small brushes of fingers at times, but this time regular, familiar and warm, not futile sparks but flickers of a steady flame. And now – that is new - it is often an embrace that lasts for hours. And now, whenever one soul reaches for another - a hand follows the call, and is met with a welcoming touch. And steadily, slowly, centuries of longing melt away.

Aziraphale places a hand on Crowley's chest - and his fingers begin to recognize it, how they recognize the knob of the front door, the ridges of the Bible collection, the smooth frame of his reading glasses. He listens to the feeling of comfort and safety rising in his chest, his body responding to the touch now made familiar. And there is so much time. A whole eternity ahead to make every part of each other feel like home.

* * *

_(this wasn't inspired by anything in particular but i did see a very cool post with a similar concept that i could be subconsciously influenced by so i'm crediting it:__ post/185666791999/aziraphale-kisses-him-oh-crowley-says-once _

_edit: copied the link w/o looking at it and did it poorly the first time and cropped it and i am so sorry _😔_)_


End file.
